Good Vibrations
by Ninazadzia
Summary: After years of attending an all-girls Catholic School, Tris Prior decides she's had enough of it. She transfers to Randolph High, the most athletic public school in New Jersey. As she dives headfirst into this new world of sports, boys, and parties, she meets Tobias Eaton, a reserved wrestler with a dark past. Four/Tris, high school AU. T for sex/alcohol.
1. Chapter One: Prologue

_Good Vibrations_

By Ninazadzia

"_Close my eyes_

_She's somehow closer now_

_Softly smile, I know she must be kind_

_When I look in her eyes_

_She goes with me to a blossom world_

_I'm picking up good vibrations_

_She's giving me excitations_

_Good, good, good, good vibrations . . ."_

-**Good Vibrations, **The Beach Boys

~Prologue~

_November 29__th__, 2013_

There's something undeniably interesting about high school.

In between the classes, the sports, the parties, and the reputations, you know just about everyone. I'd learn this better than anyone else. At the start of my first semester at public high school, I was the quiet, Catholic school transfer.

Christ, did that change quickly. For better or for worse, everyone knows my name now.

It didn't happen intentionally. I got swept up in my team, in the parties, in the atmosphere. I was involved in a scandal I didn't want any part of, and I ended up with a boy that I never thought I'd end up with. So, yeah, it made for good gossip.

But, as I stand here, kissing said boy on the lips, I hear a voice in the recesses of my mind.

_I don't care if I'm a topic of discussion. I belong here._

I think back to my days in private school. It was so different, so colorless. I think of where I am now, with my teammates and this boy and these friends and the beer in my right hand—

It's hard to believe that it only took three months for me to get here. Three months for my life to completely change.

_"Yeaaaaah, Prior! Get some!_

That was Christina hollering in the background. I smile to myself. I hear him give a low, throaty laugh.

_Oh, yeah, _I think. I kiss him deeper. _I wouldn't have this any other way._

XXX

**A/N: Heyya guys! So I've written quite a bit of high school AU in the Hunger Games fandom, and since I've recently fallen in love with the Divergent series, I figured I'd write something AU for Divergent as well.**

**This scene is set at the tail end of this fanfic story. After this, I'll go back in time (to the first day of school) where the story begins.**

**I'm still trying to work out the pairings for this, but the only thing I'm set on right now is Four/Tris. Let me know if you guys want to see some Christina/Will, Christina/Uriah, whatever else.**

**Thanks so much for reading! If you're interested in me continuing this story, please leave a review :D**

**Most of the other chapters will be between 1-2K**


	2. Chapter Two: Public School

_Good Vibrations_

By Ninazadzia

_"Close my eyes_

_She's somehow closer now_

_Softly smile, I know she must be kind_

_When I look in her eyes_

_She goes with me to a blossom world_

_I'm picking up good vibrations_

_She's giving me excitations_

_Good, good, good, good vibrations . . ."_

_-__**Good Vibrations, **__The Beach Boys_

~Chapter One~

**Public School**

"You're awfully quiet."

I don't respond to Caleb immediately. Instead I change the radio station, just before Walker's "Every Praise" can reach its chorus.

I'm so over gospel music, I tell myself.

"Not a fan?" he asks.

"Hmm?"

"The song." He taps the dashboard. "You don't like it?"

I snicker. "I'm transferring out of Mount Saint Mary's today, Caleb. Do you really think it's the song that I have an issue with?"

"Oh, okay." He pauses, yawning. "So, when are going to tell mom and dad?"

"Tell them what?"

"That you're atheist, apparently."

"Jesus."

"What?"

"You sound just like them," I grumble.

"Well, sorry for making astute observations -"

"Oh, so I don't like gospel music and Catholic school - that suddenly makes me an atheist?" I say, harsher than I mean to. My stomach does a few somersaults. If Caleb is taken aback by how I'm acting, he doesn't show it.

"Sorry," I mumble. "I'm just nervous. Is that weird?"

"You're nervous about your first day of public school?" He shakes his head. "No. I think that's pretty normal." He hits the brake, stopping at a red light. "I mean, I'm nervous for my first day, and it's not like I'm transferring schools or anything."

"Gee, that makes me feel so much better."

"Well, this was your decision, wasn't it? I'd imagine that you have an idea of what you're getting yourself into."

"Not really," I say. God, I really should've done my research. "The only thing I know about Randolph is that they're good at sports." I wipe my nose. "Oh, and I guess that everyone there isn't Catholic."

"Something tells me that's all you need to know." He rounds the corner, and the sight of the red brick building catches my eye. I feel my stomach drop. Randolph High School is written across a marquee on the front lawn; I watch as dozens of students file through the front doors, all of them dressed in different colors and fabrics.

I think of Mt. Saint Mary's. I think of the plaid uniform I have hanging in my closet. I'll never have to wear it again, if I don't want to.

Caleb pulls to a stop. I watch a gaggle of gaggle of girls watch by, each of them wearing dresses or skirts in different shades of pinks, blues, and yellows. I look down at my khaki shorts (which go down to my fingertips) and gray t-shirt.

Well. I certainly scream "Catholic school!"

"Hey." Caleb plants a hand on my shoulder, and gives it what I assume to be a reassuring squeeze. "Don't forget, you wanted this. And if it doesn't work out, I'm sure Mount will take you back."

Easy for you to say, I think. My brother is the picturesque image of a Catholic schoolboy. Most guys look stiff and severe in their polos and khakis, but my brother wears them like they were made for him. (He's also one of those people that brings his bible onto airplanes. Crazy, I know.)

As for me? I'm the girl who constantly puts her foot in her mouth. I always blurt out the wrong stuff at the wrong time - "what's so bad about gay marriage?" "why can't women be priests?" - that and I talk too much for teachers' (and classmates') likings.

No, going back isn't an option.

But I turn to Caleb, and offer him a nod. "Happy senior year," I tell him.

"Happy sophomore year," he replies. "I'll pick you up at three?"

I nod. He gives me a wave, puts the car back in drive, and pulls away. I watch him until he rounds the intersection; as long as he doesn't get caught by any red lights, he should make it to St. Peter's on time. I turn around, and face the building that I'll spend the next three years in.

"Okay," I tell myself.

Okay.

* * *

"So. Raise your hand if you've taken the Ages and Ideas before."

Just about every hand in the room goes, except for mine and few others'. Right, I think. The prerequisite class. I mean, it's technically not a pre-rec, since anyone can sit for the AP Art History qualifier. But it's definitely no surprise that most of the kids in this room have taken Randolph's art history elective, considering it's the foundation for everything we'll learn this year.

I look around, to see if anyone else potentially transferred schools, like me. The red-headed girl in the corner didn't raise her hand, and neither did the guy three seats in front of me. But in between his tattoos (which I could just make out on the back of his neck) and her unnaturally red hair color, the two of them screamed, "public school!"

I shrink a bit in my desk.

My teacher (Mrs. Watts) gives a broad smile. "I thought I'd recognized most of you." She turns around and writes her name on the board. "Well, I think I know most of you, but I see few new faces. For those of you that don't know me, I'm Mrs. Watts." She turns back to face us. "I'm head of our history department, and I teach Art History and Ages and Ideas."

She turns to her deck, and grabs fifteen or so packets that have about ten pages apiece. She plops them on our desks, and they make a loud thump as they hit the wood. "I'll talk about what we'll be learning this year in a little bit. But before that, I'd like to take a minute to get to know - or, well, re-know - all of you. Because this class, and your classmates-" she plops down the last packet, "will become your support system, at least over the course of this year. I'm sure your guidance counselors have debriefed you all, and I'm not going to sugarcoat it - AP Art History is a lot of work."

She emphasizes every word. I shrink some more.

"So, you all will need each other. We're going to get through this, and we're going to do it together. So first, I think it would help if we all know each other."

"Hey, Mrs. Watts?" The girl in the front desk raises her hand; she's slouched back in her chair. "Can I start?"

"Yes, Shauna, of course."

Shauna turns around, and faces the rest of us. She leans forward, placing her hands on her knees.

Before she can open her mouth, someone hollers from the back of the room, "Remember, Shaun, we don't need a monologue."

An undertone of laughing reverberates through the room. "Yeah, yeah, Elijah. Zip it." She clears her throat. "So, I'm Shauna. I'm a senior this year. Assuming my coach isn't a complete a-hole, I should be the captain of the girls' cross country team. My favorite color is orange, I like to paint, and in my free time, I enjoy candlelit dinners and long walks on the beach."

I can tell that Mrs. Watts is trying hard not to laugh. I can't help it; I join the rest of the room in trying - and failing - to stifle my laughter.

"Thanks for that, Shauna." Mrs. Watts reaches out and plants a hand on her shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "That was very insightful; however, the rest of you don't have to be quite as expressive if you don't want to be. We can't all be so bold."

"Damn straight," I hear Shauna say under her breath.

Mrs. Watts looks up. "Who wants to go next?"

We work our way around the room. Elijah - the kid in the back - is the senior VP and has an incredibly dry sense of humor. The rehead, Katherine, is broody and listens to indie music. By the time Mrs. Watts gets to me, just about everyone in the room has gone. I gulp back a lump in my throat, thinking of how flavorless I'll be in comparison.

"My name is Beatrice . . . " I start. The name suddenly sounds wrong, rolling off of my tongue, especially in this room. " . . . but I go by Tris," I add, slowly. My eyes flit around the room, and I half expect someone to shout out, "Liar! Poser!" But then I remember that I'm not in Catholic school anymore. I don't know these people, and whatever I'll tell them is what they'll believe.

So, I straighten my back. Maybe they won't see how terrified you are. "I'm a sophomore this year. I know this is an upperclassman only AP, but I completed all of the Art Hist prerecs at my old school, so I'm taking it now."

"Where did you go to school?" Mrs. Watts asked.

"Mount Saint Mary's," I reply. "We had a pretty good art program." I blush, realizing what I'd just said. "Not any better than this one, obviously. But, yeah. I'm just glad that I go to a school where non-theological things are taken seriously, like sports. And music. So I'm excited to take this class. Art and history are my favorite subjects, so this seems like a good combination."

I stop. It's only hitting me now that this is the most I've spoken, at once, in a classroom setting, probably ever.

Did I really just say that Mount only takes theological things seriously?

You're an idiot, Tris.

"Well, I'm excited to have you here, Tris," Mrs. Watts offers. She glances, and point to the boy three rows in front of me. The one with the tattoos. "I believe you're the last one," she says.

He nods. "I'm Tobias." Even though he's sitting in the front row, he doesn't turn around, so none of us can see his face. His eyes remained trained on the board and our teacher. "I'm a senior this year, and 'm on the wrestling team. That's pretty much all that you need to know about me."

While his voice is level, there's an unmistakable edge to it. It's somewhat condescending, but that's not the best word. I crane my neck, trying to get a good look at him, but it's futile. So I shrug it off.

"Alright, well, welcome Tobias." Mrs. Watts claps her hands together. "Okay. So now that we're done with introductions, if you could all just turn to page two of your packets . . ."

Mrs. Watts spends the rest of the period going over class rules and commitments, tests and essays, the AP exam and our midterm, etcetera etcetera. My stomach drops with every page that I turn. When I signed up for Art History, I didn't realize that I was selling my soul to the art devils until May.

Still, there's something to be said about sitting in a classroom full of jocks, class presidents, future comedians, and fellow art-nerds. I'm definitely not used to it, but I can already tell that I like it.

The bells rings. Everyone in the room gets up, and starts to file out the door. I'm still putting my things back into my bag, when I see a figure loom over me.

"Tris, right?" she says.

I nod. "Shauna," I reply, immediately. She's not the kind of person that you easily forget.

"Listen, I don't know if you remember, but I'm one of our school's cross country captains this year." She says it with a kind of pride that makes me want to simultaneously applaud her and smack her. "You said some really gutsy shit today, definitely not something I'd expect from a Catholic schoolgirl - you should come out for the team."

"Wait. The cross country team?" I sputter.

"Yeah. We have practice at three."

"But I don't run."

"So?" she shrugs. "You're fast-looking."

"I mean, I'm skinny-"

"Which pretty much means you have a shit-load of natural talent. And hey, I didn't run a single step before my first practice. Now I'm one of the top runners in the state." She offers me a wide smile. "Trust me, it's a ton easier than it sounds."

"Thanks, but I'm not sure I have time for that kind of a commitment-"

"Commitment? Nahhh. C'mon, Tris, what else were you planning to do this year?"

I shrug. "I don't know. Getting good grades?"

She snorts, and waves a hand dismissively. "You'll go crazy if all you do is study. I'm telling you-" she punches my arm, "give it a chance. You won't regret it."

Before I can open my mouth to reply, she pats me on a cheek, "I'll take that silence as a yes. That's a good girl." She throws her bag over her shoulder, and saunters to the door. I whip around, still slightly stunned by the entire thing.

"Shauna-"

"Three PM! I better see you there!"

With that, the door slams shut behind her.

* * *

**A/N: Big thanks to everyone who reviewed the first chapter of this. I can't tell you how much it means to receive such amazing feedback! If you want to me to review some of you guys back, just let me know and I'd be more than happy to.**

**I'm thinking of updating once a week for this fic- does every Saturday sound good to you guys? Let me know.**

**I apologize for the delay; I got unintentionally wrapped in in an original fic (which can be viewed at this link: ** www . fictionpress s/3177371/1/The-Roads-we-Walk**) so this is coming a little later than I anticipated. **

**I hope you guys had an awesome week! Much love from me :D**

**Tease for next week: Tris at her first XC practice. We meet Christina :P**

xx Nina


	3. Chapter Three: Cross-Country

_Good Vibrations_

By Ninazadzia

"_Close my eyes_

_She's somehow closer now_

_Softly smile, I know she must be kind_

_When I look in her eyes_

_She goes with me to a blossom world_

_I'm picking up good vibrations_

_She's giving me excitations_

_Good, good, good, good vibrations . . ."_

-**Good Vibrations, **The Beach Boys

Chapter Two

~Cross Country~

"You can't be serious."

I balk. Granted, Coach Wu isn't talking to me, but I'm still caught in the middle of this. Shauna shrugs, a smile plastered across her face. "C'mon Tori, just look at her—she'll be an asset.

_Tori?_ Clearly, that must be the Randolph XC coach's first name. It looks like Shauna's the only one who's on a first name basis with her; for the few minutes I've stood on this track, I've only heard the others call her Coach Wu.

"Shauna, you know my rules." She sounds mildly annoyed more than genuinely irritated, which I guess is a good sign. "Practice is mandatory, and that includes pre-season." Coach Wu turns to me. "I'm sorry, Tris, but we've been practicing for three weeks now. I can't let you on the team."

"Hey, Coach Wu, c'mon." Another girl steps forward, decked out in head to toe black Lululemon. _How is she not boiling?_ I wonder. She's wearing a t-shirt and shorts, yeah, but it must be eighty degrees out. Black isn't the friendliest color to wear in this kind of weather. "Hell, Christina showed up a week late, and you still let her on."

She jabs the girl next to her—presumably Christina—who gives her a big scowl. "Way to throw me under the bus, Laur."

"Christina," Coach Wu calls, "You didn't know you were moving to Randolph until, when?"

"Two days before I fucking got here," she says. "Mom and pops aren't about planning ahead. Unfortunately."

_So, people from South Jersey actually _do _talk like that, _I think. Christina's thick accent is unmistakable; in between that and the neon pink shirt she wears with _Seaside Heights _plastered across the front, it isn't hard to guess where she'd moved from.

"See? She's a special circumstance. And, also, you did track at your old school, right?" Coach Wu asks. Christina nods, and throws me a glance.

I take another glance at the girls I have before me. Most of them aren't even paying attention to the conversation that's taking place; they're all talking and stretching out, each girl louder than the next.

And, for some reason, it's this image that seals the deal.

"I really, really want to run for Randolph," I say to Coach Wu. "I promise, if you let me on the team, you won't regret it."

"Did you run at Mount Saint Mary's?"

"No," I answer. "We didn't have a track team."

Lauren snorts. "For real? Damn. I don't blame you for transferring."

"But did you run on your own?" Coach Wu presses.

I _could _lie, but God, there's no point in that. On the off-chance that she agrees to give me a spot, it'll become obvious soon enough just how out of shape I am.

"No," I admit.

"Well, Tris, you don't need to be on a team to run." She looks down at her clipboard, scribbling some notes. "If you're really that passionate about it, I suggest you run on your own time for the fall. We'll be more than happy to take you for the winter season."

_But it's not the running that I'm passionate about! _I feel like shouting.

"Hey," Shauna says, snapping her fingers. "Why don't we have her do a time trial?"

"A what?" I ask. Some of the girls snicker at me.

"A time trial," Lauren says, picking at her cu. "You race a certain distance, except it's not a formal competition. It gauges what kind of shape you're in."

My stomach drops at the sound of that. _Race? Wait—you mean, like, right now?_

"Yeah," Shauna says. "I mean, shit, some runners are just so naturally talented that they do great without any training. Who's to say Tris isn't one of them?"

It's a long shot, and I know it. I also know for a fact that if I _do _run this mock-race, I'll probably die halfway through. But for some reason, I push that thought aside.

Coach Wu sighs. "I don't know, Shauna . . ."

"We want to beat Red Bank this year, don't we?" she says. "And to do that, we'll need _every asset _that we can get. If we boot Tris off the team, and if we lose at States by a point, we'll spend the rest of the year going, 'what-if?'"

Coach Wu looks at me. I steel myself up.

"So, do I take a chance on you?" Coach Wu asks, more to herself than anyone else. But then she raises an eyebrow.

_I need to convince her._

I cough. "Well. What time and distance would I need to run?"

She mulls it over for a second. "A sixteen," she says, finally, "in under six."

"Bullshit!" someone shouts. "Lauren couldn't even do a sub-six sixteen right now!"

"Yeah!" a short haired girl says. "It's _way _too early in the season to expect anyone to do that."

She'd lost me at the word "sixteen."

_Sixteen? Under six? What, six miles in under sixteen minutes? Is that even physically _possible?

"Okay, fine," Coach Wu says. "We'll bump that up to six-thirty. I think that's reasonable."

"Um," I ask, "what?"

My face flushes. A few of the girls laugh, but not meanly.

"You have to run a mile in under six and a half minutes," she says. "Sound fair?"

_No. Dear God, no. _My stomach churns. The last time I ran a mile was for school, and the best I could ever remember doing was around, gee, _nine _minutes. And even _that_ was years ago.

Still, I try to hide my obvious fear. I don't argue with her, I don't tell her, "Well, I think eight minutes would be more reasonable." Instead, I nod. "Yep. That's fine by me."

"Good." She scribbles something down on her clipboard. "Shauna, Lauren, can you two get her set up? The rest of you, take two laps around the backfields and do your drills. Marlene, Lynn, you two can lead."

"For real?" The girl with the short hair—Lynn or Marlene, I'm guessing—breaks into a huge smile. "Alright! Leading the pack, that's what I'm talking about!"

She high-fives the dark-haired, pretty girl next to her. "You heard Coach Wu!" she shouts. "Backfields, pronto!"

The rest of them stalk off the track and behind the stadium. I crane my neck. There's a huge expanse of field (the perimeter of which must be at least half a mile long), where the other fall sports are practicing.

I know that I should be taken aback by just how huge Randolph's athletic facilities are, coming from a school where sports were next to nonexistent. Instead, the idea is almost thrilling to me. There must be easily four hundred people in the backfields, in between all of the JV and Varsity soccer, football, cross country, and field hockey players.

I turn away, and walk over to Shauna and Lauren. They lead me to the inside lane of the track. Lauren turns to me. "So, you're Tris?" She claps me on the back. "This is something you really want, right? This one—" she pokes Shauna "didn't threaten to haze you if you didn't go out for the team?"

Shauna laughs. I force a smile, in spite of how I feel sick to my stomach. _Six-thirty mile. Jesus. _"Something like that," I say. I point to the track. "So, how's this going to work?"

"It's pretty simple, actually. One lap is a quarter of a mile. After four laps, you're done."

"That's it?"

"Yep. That's it."

"You don't have a watch, do you?" Shauna asks. I shake my head. "Okay, so we'll call out your splits every four-hundred."

_Great. More phrases that I don't understand. _"Um, sorry?" I ask.

"We'll tell you your _time_ after every _lap,"_ Lauren says, jabbing Shauna. "She can't speak track, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah. We'll give her a vocabulary lesson later." Shauna glances me over. "So, you ready to go? You want to grab a last sip of water? Do you want any advice?"

If I'd had any brains at all, I would've said, _yes, please, some advice would be great. Like, how in the world do you people expect me to run a mile that fast?_

But at this point, I'm so nervous that I just want it to be over with. "Nope. I think I'm good," I tell them.

Lauren nods. "Okay. Get on your mark, then," she says.

I put my toes just behind the line. I glanced down at my attire—my khaki Bermuda shorts, gray t-shirt, keds, and training bra—and thought of Christina, Lynn's, and Lauren's attires. No, I'm definitely not wearing running gear.

"Set," Shauna says. I make what I think is a running-stance. "Go!"

I'm off before I can think too much about it. I feel my arms flail with me as I run, but my legs and brain are so frazzled that it's easy to ignore. My thoughts are jumbled; just as I start thinking, _focus, focus, _my mind jumps to how fast I'm going, how hard I'm breathing—holy shit, it's hot out—how come I'm not in pain yet? Why am I still going so fast?

Wait. It's been a quarter of a mile already?"

"One-twenty!" Lauren calls out.

"Tris, you only need to hit 1:37 per lap—you're going a little fast!" Shauna calls after me. I'm pretty far down the track at this point. _One thirty-seven? _I think._ Okay, okay. I can afford to relax a bit._

My legs, however, don't listen to this. They continue to pound at what I think is the same speed, not wanting to back off. _Okay, well, as long as I still can, I might as well keep going this fast,_ I tell myself.

But it's not long after that—just before the second lap—that I feel it. A churn, a rumble. It's unmistakably coming from my stomach.

I hit the line, just after the second lap. "Three flat!" Lauren calls out. "You're doing great, Tris, just try to maintain speed!"

But I can feel my body waver. I'd just done half a mile in three minutes. There's a price that comes with that, and I'm starting to feel it. My quads—which had felt so strong during the first lap—ache. My legs aren't used to this kind of pounding, and my arms aren't used to this kind of swinging. It's foreign, and it hurts.

That's not even the worst part. About halfway through the third lap, I sense the unmistakable taste of bile in my throat.

_Oh God. Not now._

I stop on the side of the track _just _in time. My lunch, breakfast, and the protein bar I had earlier all come up at once. I heave and retch in the hot air, and try not watch as my puke lands on the turf. In between it all, I feel hot tears come out of my eyes.

I don't know this kind of pain. I didn't know how _weak _my body was, so weak that it couldn't even half three-quarters of a mile without throwing-up. But I know it now, and I know the truth—I'm no endurance athlete. I'm just not cut out for this.

_Yes you are. _

The voice comes from the recesses of my mind.

_What are you, a fucking two year old? Stop crying. Stop being such a baby. Get your shit together, and get moving. _

I wipe my mouth. I listen to _that_ voice before I can think too much about it, before I can listen to the _other _voice, the one that goes, _it hurts, you're sick, it hurts too much, just stop._

"No," I grumble, out loud. No. I'm not listening to you.

Shauna and Lauren are hooting and hollering, _screaming _so loud that my eardrums just about pop as I come across the line of the third lap. "Hang in there, Tris!" "You've got this, girl!"

But they don't call out my time, which I infer is a bad thing.

Even then, I don't stop. I keep going. Because for as much pain as I'm in and for how out of shape I am, I'm _finishing _this mile. When I have about half a lap left, I pick it up speed. By the time I hit that last straightaway, I sprint, running as fast as my legs will let me.

I cross the line, and stop immediately. I pant, and I can feel the sweat as it rolls down my shoulders. My t-shirt, which is a light shade of gray, is completely soaked through, save for where my bra is, where there's an unmistakable outline. I blush, but decide to ignore it.

"Good job, Tris," Lauren tells me.

"That was awful," I blurt out, doubled over.

"You sucked it up, though. That's saying something."

"What was my time?" I demand.

Shauna shows me the watch. 7:11. Shit. It's over.

Tori walks over. I compose myself, straightening my back. Okay, so maybe I didn't make the team—but that doesn't mean I'll let her see me as weak. So I steel myself and stare ahead. I don't even have to brace myself for what's to come, because I already know. It's time to just accept it and move on.

Tori eyes me, her clipboard still in her hands. That damn clipboard.

She nods. "Lauren, go join the girls. Shauna, take Tris to the locker room. She needs a uniform."

XXX

**A/N: Huzzah! I'm sure any distance runner can relate to this chapter, because shit just **_**happens**_** when you race. I had a lot of fun channeling something that's so near and dear to my heart. **

**Thank you guys so much for reading! I love youuuu.**

**Preview for the next chapter: A race, a party, and TOBIAS.**

**xx Nina**


	4. Chapter Four: Races

_Good Vibrations_

By Ninazadzia

_"Close my eyes_

_She's somehow closer now_

_Softly smile, I know she must be kind_

_When I look in her eyes_

_She goes with me to a blossom world_

_I'm picking up good vibrations_

_She's giving me excitations_

_Good, good, good, good vibrations . . ."_

_-__**Good Vibrations, **__The Beach Boys_

~Chapter Four~

**Races**

* * *

"Hey, newbie—you doing okay?"

It's a wonder that Christina can _breathe _right now, much less talk. I'm doubled over, gripping my sweaty knees and gasping for air. _Fuck you, Coach Wu, _I feel like snapping. But I don't. My throat is coated in so much phlegm that even if I tried, I couldn't.

Anyway, it was a small miracle in itself that Coach Wu let me on the team; so, when she told me to run with the Varsity pack for my _first fucking cross country workout, _I kept my mouth shut. But, now that I know what I'm in for (five half-mile reps in 3:10 or under), I'm ready to have some colorful language fly at her.

If I can talk, that is.

"Grueling, huh?" Christina says. She claps me on the back. "For fuck's sake, Prior, you're allowed to complain."

"I'm trying not to think about it," I manage. "How much it hurts, I mean."

Christina laughs. She tugs my arm, and pulls me along with her. "I've been doing this for four seasons now, hon. Trying not to think about it never fucking works." She jerks her head to the right. "C'mon, slowpoke. We've only got thirty seconds of rest left."

I nod, walking over. My legs_ ache _with every step. It's probably a side effect of going from never running a step in my life, to being told to run between three and six miles every day. I'm also not Varsity material, I know that for a fact; I could keep up with the top JV girls on our training runs, yeah, but that doesn't even come close to what Lauren and Shauna are capable of (who are 12th and 22nd in the state, respectively.)

Actually, scratch that - what I can do doesn't even come _close _to anyone else on the Varsity Roster. After Shauna there are Lynn and Marlene, childhood besties who are (apparently) much better on the track then they are on the cross country course. They're mile and half-mile specialists (or, now that I've picked up on some track lingo, "sixteen" and "eight" specialists), and they tend to place better in shorter events than they do in 5Ks. But, needless to say, they're both insanely fast.

After that, there are two freshmen who are really good. I think their names are Brooke and Erica. Christina is somewhere in that mix. Then, in between her and the JV girls, _brand new _runners, and I'm-just-looking-to-get-in-shape-for-lax girls, there's me.

So, yeah. Being thrown into an 800 workout with the Varsity roster is a little beyond me. I ask Christina why, and she just shrugs.

"No fucking clue. Hey, I've only been here two weeks longer than you—I still haven't figured out Coach Wu."

I toe the line for our last rep. We all set our watches. Lauren shouts "go," and then we're off, blazing around the track. Shauna and Lauren, of course, are waaaaaaay out ahead of us; they'll probably come in around the low 2:40s.

As exhausted as I am from running, that's only half the battle. I feel hours of sleep deprivation take a toll on me as I run around that track. At Mount, I had an abundance of free time to study, and my workload was much lighter. I'm taking harder classes here, and the teachers seem to genuinely enjoy piling on the schoolwork. It was major culture shock, at first; at Mount, they brainwashed us into believing that we were going to one of the "finest parochial schools in New Jersey," and that our minds were being cultivated through theology. They always made it sound like the public schools were slums, and that the kids that went to those schools were washed up, and most likely came from families that couldn't afford private school.

That might be the case in some areas, but definitely _not _with Randolph.

Make no mistake: it's a middle class, suburban high school. It's not like the ultra-rich Essex county high schools, and it's not a Newark slum. There are some affluent kids, yeah, but most everyone seems . . . normal. Slightly privileged, even. They're smarter than I expected, and on top of that, just about everyone does some kind of sport or extracurricular activity. Coming from a school where Stewardship and prayer were considered viable extracurriculars, managing my studies and sports has been (to understate it) a challenge.

And, for some reason, it makes me feel _alive. _

"Good job, Tris!" "Go Christina!"

It's probably the people that I'm surrounded by. It's probably the fact that I spend two hours every day with girls that _voluntarily _put their bodies through the wringer. But there's something so thrilling, so understatedly _fulfilling _about pushing yourself.

It might be new to me, but I'm not at all out of my element.

* * *

"You nervous, Prior?"

_Not now, Christina, _I want to snap. My stomach feels like it's about to drop out of my butt, and my skin is crawling. Christina, on the other hand, is cooling down. She's already run her race (and performed quite well, at that), and she's done for the day. Lucky bitch.

I, on the other hand, am toeing the starting line. From what little I know about high school cross country races, one of those officials is soon going to walk out, fire that gun, and I'll have to commit the next twenty-four or so minutes of pain. I'm in the JV race, so that makes the competition a little easier—but that doesn't mean I'm any less terrified.

"How is it today?" I ask.

"Brisk in some parts, but the breeze is nice. It cools you down. Hey." Christina grabs my shoulders, and forces me to look her in the eye. "Everyone on varsity had a great race today. You will, too. Just get out of your fucking head for once and _run, _okay?"

I nod, and then push her away. "Don't tell me what to do," I joke.

She snickers. "That's my girl." I turn around to walk back to the line, and she smacks my behind. "Go get 'em."

I laugh. But internally, I'm flashing back to my time trial. Three quarters of a mile in, and I'd thrown up.

God.

The girls huddle up, and the senior JV girls give a half-hearted pre-race speech. "Think off all of the brownies you can eat later, imagine there's a hot guy waiting for you at the finish line, and you can do _whatever _you want to with him when you're done." Something told me that the varsity speech went a lot differently.

The man walks out. "There will be one command!" he shouts. "When I fire this gun, you all run out to the pole over there! Are we clear?"

No one says anything. He takes it as a yes.

He walks out about fifty meters. "On you mark!"

We take our positions. And then there's the crack of a gun.

* * *

Mile one. Pant. Pant. Sweat. Sweat. Adrenaline courses through my body. I sprinted out of the gate (like Christina told me to), and find myself in the front of the pack. _I shouldn't be up here,_ I think. _I don't belong here._

I run up a hill. There's maybe five or six girls ahead of me. I see Coach Wu, about a hundred meters away, holding a watch.

As I pass her, she calls out my first mile split.

"7:01!"

_Jesus fucking Christ._

* * *

Mile two. The burn sets in.

Like with my time trial, I knew that I'd gone out too fast. It doesn't hit me until I'm about halfway through, and when it does, it comes on full force.

I'm slipping. I'm fading. I'm about to slow down. I watch as the leaders create a bigger gap between myself and them.

And, then, I pass the varsity girls, who are running their cool down on the side of the course.

"_Yeah, Tris!"_

"_Go get them, girl!"_

"_Looking great, looking great, you're kicking ass."_

"_Don't slow down now! You're too tough to quit!"_

They're hollering, _bellowing_, and the looks on their faces are absolutely _explosive._

I shake the thought of slowing down out of my head. _Fuck off, _I tell it.

* * *

Mile three. I can see the finish line.

I picked off the fifth and fourth girl in the middle of the second mile, miraculously. Two other girls stand between myself and the finish line. Like Christina said, the race finished on a stretch of a blacktop; it's a straight-shot from me to clock.

I hit that pavement. I'm closing in on the others.

And my legs—which feel like two hunks of raw meat, hung up to dry - are _aching_, shouting at me, _stop, stop, please just stop. _But it's not my stomach this time, and that's all that matters.

Breathe. Breathe. One foot in front of the other.

I manage to pick it up to a full sprint. I pass the other two girls. I should feel glorious, I know I should, but all I can think of is the pool of oxygen I'll swim in when I'm done.

I cross the line. 21:52.

* * *

I'm engulfed by more than a pool of oxygen when I finish.

Every single member of the Varsity Squad—Lauren, Shauna, Christina, Marlene, Lynn, Brooke, and Erica—swarm around me. They hug me, shout in my ear, and holler stuff like, _number eight, number eight, the newbie is number eight!_

In that moment, I glance at Coach Wu. She's busy scribbling something on her clipboard, but then she looks up, just long enough for her eyes to meet mine. She walks over, expressionless.

"Well?" I breathe.

She cracks a smile, and puts a hand on my shoulder. "Shauna," she barks. Shauna turns to face her.

"Yeah?" she goes.

"Congratulations. You know have an official title: Team Scout."

* * *

At dinner that night, Christina gives me a call. My parents start to scold me—

"you can't get up from the dinner table, it's just a phone call," "It can wait, Beatrice,"—but I run out of the room, not paying them any attention.

"Yeah?" I answer, shutting my door behind me.

"Hey! So you know that black bustier that I have? Well, should I wear that or my Seaside tank tonight? Y'know, I could show off the girls, because the bustier-bombshell bra combo makes my boobs look _intense,_ or I could show some Seaside pride. And the pink tank makes me look tanner."

"Wait, wait—what's going on tonight?" I ask.

"You didn't know? Shit, I forgot to tell you!" I could practically see Christina slap herself in the forehead. "Well, in celebration of _you _becoming Randolph's first varsity alternate, _you're _invited to a victory cross country party!"

"A cross country party?" I echo. "That _exists?"_

"Yeah, well, only on occasions like this one," she says. "I mean, Stewart Memorial, the invitational that we won today—apparently that's our first time _ever _winning, in all of school history. That and the boys won, too. Shauna and Laur are tight with the captain of the boys' team—I think his name is Zeke—so they spent the last few hours planning the whole thing."

"Okay," I say, slowly. I don't know much about high school parties, and what I _do _know, I know because of TV. "So what are, like, the logistics of this?"

Christina prattles on about Zeke. Apparently he's one of the senior class' Golden Boys. He's a triple varsity athlete (Cross Country, Basketball, and Lacrosse), he has a sick sense of humor, and he's a bit of a party boy. His family owns a mansion on the other side of town, he has a fake ID, and his parents don't really care about him throwing ragers—

"Wait," I interrupt, "There's going to be alcohol?"

"Um, _yeah._ Fuck, Tris, what planet are you from?"

"Catholic school?" I snort. "I've never been to one of these things."

Christina squeals so loud that I have to pull my phone away from my ear. "_Awwww! _Oh my god! You _have _to take your first shots with me! Holy shit, this is going to be so much fun!"

"Christina-"

"Ooh, I wonder what _drunk _Tris is like-"

"_Christina!"_ I snap. "I'm not going!"

"What? Of course you are."

"No, I'm not." I groan, and without meaning to, turn and look into the mirror. My plain, freckled, makeup-less reflection stares back at me. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. My parents would never let me."

"'_Even if I wanted to?_'" Christina mocks. "Oh, honey, it's okay. You don't need to deny it. You _want _to get drunk with me."

I laugh. "Thanks, but no. I'd rather not lose my sense of self and possibly throw up."

"Okay, fine, so you don't _have_ to drink—you could just go to socialize! Celebrate with us, hang out, I dunno, be my wingwoman or whatever—please?"

I sigh. In truth, the idea is tempting. Dangerous? Yes. Stupid? Probably. But fun?

Undeniably.

I rack my brain, searching for something. I'm not sure how I'll get around my parents, until I remember that I have a seventeen year old brother, who happens to have his own car and a driver's license. A seventeen year old brother that I _trust, _at that.

"What time is this thing at?" I ask.

More squealing.

I return to the table, scarf down what's left of my dinner, and throw a bag together in about five minutes. I'd have to go looking like my normal self, otherwise my parents would be suspicious. The makeup and outfit change would have to wait until I got there. It wasn't like I owned anything especially party-worthy (aside from maybe a few body sprays), but I grabbed what I could, and stuffed it into my school bag. Christina said she'd bring some makeup and outfit, and that she'd beautiful me in the bathroom.

"Hey, mom?" I ask, heading toward the kitchen door. "Is it okay if I spend the night at Susan's? She invited me to sleepover, and I haven't seen her in forever."

My mother searches my expression. I had half a mind to ask to sleepover at Christina's, but then I remembered that my parents neither knew nor trusted her, so that was a no-go. Susan, on the other hand? She's the perfect cover.

After a painful minute, my mom nods. "Alright. Your father can give you a ride."

"Actually, I was wondering if Caleb could take me," I cut in. _Think fast, think fast._ "I wanted to talk to him about some college stuff."

Caleb—who's plopped in front of the TV, as he usually is on a Saturday night—

calls from the living room, "I would, but my car is in the repair shop. Some issue with the windshield wipers."

I glance at my father, who's already getting up from his chair. _Think, think—_

I open my mouth to ask if Caleb can drive me with dad's car, but I shut it almost immediately. Saying something like that is way too suspicious.

"You ready to go?" my dad asks, grabbing his coat.

"Yeah," I say, my throat suddenly dry. "Sure."

_Well, shit._

* * *

**A/N: I meant to have this and the party scene be one giant chapter, but that would just be tooooo damn long. So, I broke it up into two parts. Part two should be on its way in the next few days :D**

**Thanks so much for reading! Tease for next time—Peter Hayes, drunk!Christina, and TOBIAS.**

**xx Nina**


	5. Chapter Five: Lies and Booze

_Good Vibrations_

By Ninazadzia

* * *

_"Close my eyes_

_She's somehow closer now_

_Softly smile, I know she must be kind_

_When I look in her eyes_

_She goes with me to a blossom world_

_I'm picking up good vibrations_

_She's giving me excitations_

_Good, good, good, good vibrations . . ."_

_-__**Good Vibrations, **__The Beach Boys_

* * *

While I've never really fit the goody-goody mold, I feel the need to specify that I'm not a rule breaker either. (Well, at least I wasn't.) I'd get in trouble for stupid things, yeah, like not making my bed or not setting the table. But I never did anything blatantly bad. I'd never snuck out to a party, or snuck out to see a boy, or had casual sex, or did drugs, or drank, or anything like that.

Well, hurrah for private school Beatrice Prior. Because Beatrice 2.0 is about to soil that squeaky-clean track record.

Susan lives a few towns over, so I thankfully have some time to think about how I'm going to approach this situation. I rack my brain. I consider shooting her a text that contains both a warning a _huge _apology, but then I remember that she's on a shared account with her parents, and that they read everything she receives. I think of emailing her, before I remember that (unlike most of my Randolph friends), my flip-phone isn't capable of that. In the end, I decide that the best thing to do is to show up on her doorstep, and act confused when she (inevitably) asks what I'm doing at her house.

"We made plans at the end of the summer, remember?" I rehearse. "Susan, how could you forget?" Hopefully she'll think that her memory is failing her, or that she's gone crazy, or something like that. Then again, that's doubtful as well—I haven't spoken to Susan in close to three months. I'm sure that not only is she upset with me for ignoring her, but that she'll feel spited when I show up, uninvited, at her house.

_I'm so fucked._

"It's nice that you're seeing Susan," my dad says.

"Mhm."

"You spend so much time with those cross country girls, nowadays."

His lack of approval is _unmistakable._ My father is completely cold to my newfound interest in sports. After my time trial, Coach Wu gave me permission forms that needed to be signed by my parents. I asked my mother (because I knew my chances with her would be much, _much _better), but she called my father before agreeing to sign anything. He came home that night, and I got a _huge _lecture about "keeping my priorities in order" and "focusing on my studies" and "managing my time."

Surprisingly, it was Caleb who swayed them. "This is ridiculous," he'd muttered, in his pretentious, Caleb-like way. "The stereotype that athletes are stupid is incredibly untrue, especially at a school like Randolph. In fact, student athletes typically have _higher _GPAs than students who don't participate in any sports." This was his cue to pat my shoulder, and to then go, "besides, it will look good for college. And it will be _good_ for Beatrice to learn how to manage her time."

While I secretly resent my brother for defending me _(especially_ when I was capable of defending myself), I know that I owe him one.

"You mean my straight-A, triple-Varsity, overachieving teammates?" I go. "Yeah, dad. They're a fun group of girls."

"Well, I just hope that 'fun' doesn't get in the way of your stewardship."

_Shit,_ I think. Stewardship. Last year, I'd log anywhere between twenty and thirty hours a month at the local soup kitchen _alone_. I'd been at Randolph for all of three weeks, and I'd done maybe—what—two hours of charity work? Three? By any normal family's standards, an hour a week is pretty good. By mine, it's pitiful.

"Well, Susan is a good influence. Maybe she'll rub off on me."

My dad's eyes flit in my direction. "Watch your tone, Beatrice."

Surprisingly, I keep my mouth shut.

We pull up to Susan's house, and my palms are sweaty before I even open the car door. If anyone's rubbed off on me these last few weeks, it's Christina. Her colorful language is all too contagious, and I catch myself shouting a million internal "fuck you's."_ Fuck you, Dad. Fuck you, Susan. Fuck you, Caleb, for having a fucked up car._

_ And fuck you, New Jersey driving laws. Fuck the fact that I can't drive until I'm seventeen._

I'm half hoping that my dad will just stay in the car and watch until I get inside Susan's house (y'know, like any _normal parent _would), but of course he doesn't. "I want to say hi to Susan's parents," he says. "Haven't seen them in a while."

I nod. "Right."

I reach the doorstep. My knocks are quick and sloppy. _Act natural, act natural, _I command myself.

It's Susan that answers the door.

"Beatrice?" she goes. Her lips curl up into a smile. "What are you—"

"Oh my god, it's so good to see you!" I exclaim, cutting her off and throwing my arms around her. Her stunned expression makes me want to kick myself.

_You just used the Lord's name in vain. Idiot._

"You too, you too," she says. The confusion is palpable in her voice. I'm facing away from my dad, so I try to convey as much as I can with my expression/telepathy/etcetera. _Just play along, just play along. _I pray that she (somehow) gets the message. _Please, Susan._

"Hi, Mr. Prior," she goes. She reaches out a hand, and my father shakes it. "It's good to see you."

"You too, you too. Is your mother home?"

Almost as if on cue, Mrs. Black calls from the other room, "Susan, who's at the door?"

"Beatrice and Mr. Prior!" she shouts back. Mrs. Black emerges from the kitchen, still wearing an apron. She smells heavily of baked goods. Typical Mrs. Black. A wide, warm smile breaks out on her face as she walks forward, hugging my dad. "Come in, come in!" she insists. My dad steps through the doorframe. Susan and I lag behind for all of second, outside.

This is my only chance, so I jump on it. I pull her into (another) hug. She freezes in my arms, obviously stunned. I quickly whisper in her ear. "Please, just play along for five minutes. I'll explain later."

She pulls away, and her wide, blue eyes search mine. Her expression is unreadable. She gives me a slight nod, and then wordlessly, we slip inside.

* * *

My dad and Mrs. Black exchange pleasantries. To her never-ending credit, Susan goes along with the lie I've crafted _flawlessly_. "Yeah, we planned a sleepover at the end of the summer." "Sorry, mom, I must've forgotten to tell you." "We're thinking this will be like a monthly ritual." "Oh, absolutely. I really miss you, Beatrice. Mount just isn't the same without you."

In between my lying and Susan's acting, Dad doesn't suspect a thing. After all of ten minutes, he bids us all goodnight, and then leaves.

Susan and I go to her room.

She carefully, quietly shuts the door behind us. _Yep, that's Susan, _I muse. _Always so polite and proper_.

Then again—she'd certainly surprised me tonight.

She turns around to face me. Her expression (which had minutes ago been unreadable) was sadly confused. "What's going on, Beatrice?"

"I am so, so sorry to get mixed up in this," I start. I tell her about Randolph, and the cross-country team, and how "I really feel like I'm starting to find my good friends. We had a race today, and it went really well, and they invited me to this cross country party tonight—"

"So what are you doing here, then?" she interrupts.

I shift my weight, and awkwardly scratch my shoulder. "That's where I got my wires crossed. Mom and Dad would never let me go to a high school party, so I figured I'd just tell them that I was . . . spending the night at your place." I wince as the words come out of my mouth.

"So, you lied to them?" she asks, levelly.

"Well, I wasn't _actually_ planning on coming here. Caleb was supposed to give me a ride straight to the party. But his car's in the repair shop, so my dad drove me here."

She nods, slowly. I consider myself a decently perceptive person, and I consider Susan someone who (as polite as she tries to be) isn't too spectacular at hiding her emotions. And, God, I'll never be able to forget the look on her face. She's trying her best not to look it, but I can tell that she's hurt. Not offended, not angry—purely, simply, hurt. Hurt that I used her as a cover, hurt that I haven't spoken to her in months, and hurt because she knows now that I'm not the person she grew up with. Not anymore.

"You should probably call one of your cross country friends, then," she says quietly. "I wouldn't want you to miss your first high school party."

She says it so genuinely. It's like a kick in the gut.

"Susan, I'm really, really sorry—"

"It's okay," she replies. Her expression tells me that it's the _furthest _thing from okay, but she persists. "Really, I'm not mad or anything. I'm just glad that I could help."

* * *

_"There she is!"_

Shauna is behind the wheel ("I'm designated driver for the night. Fuck my life") and Christina just about shatters my eardrum with her hollering. As I stumble into the car, she pulls me into a bear hug.

"Are you already drunk?" I ask, my voice muffled.

She laughs. "Nahhh. The last time I pregamed before a party, it ended badly." She rifles through her handbag, and then pulls out a plastic water bottle. "But I _do _have some emergency vodka on hand, if you want."

"Emergency vodka?"

"Yeah. I keep it with me at all times."

"Isn't that, err, dangerous?"

"I mean, you never know when you'll need a shot."

From the front seat, Lauren yells, "Tris, don't drink that! You don't want your first drink to be crappy old _handbag _vodka, do you?"

I feel my face flush. "Who said that I've never had a drink before?"

Lauren and Shauna simultaneously go "Christina." Rather than shrinking in her seat, she bursts into another fit of laughter.

"Sorry," she says, giving me a look that's only half apologetic. "But I _had _to tell them this is your first party. It's just too cute."

"Yeah, well. Don't go broadcasting it to everyone else."

"Don't worry, Tris," Shauna says, turning to the right. "Zeke's is right up there. And he's very picky about his alcohol, so you'll have something other than 'emergency vodka' to choose from."

"Thank _God._" Lauren turns on the light in the passenger seat, pulls out a mirror, and applies another layer of lipstick. "I don't think I could do another weekend of old Bud Light and Smirnoff."

I know enough about alcohol to know that Lauren's referencing beer and vodka brands, but that's pretty much the end of it. To be perfectly honest, I don't think I've had a sip of anything fermented in my entire life—not even church wine. My parents are die-hard tea-toters, so forget sips of wine at the dinner table. I don't think I've even had so much as a root beer before.

Christina notices how obviously lost I am. "You ever heard of Seaside Heights, Tris?"

I shrug. "I mean, I know it's some beach town. But that's pretty much it."

She sighs, rolls her eyes and snickers. "Yeah, well it's the beach town where_ The Jersey Shore _was filmed. You know, the show about—"

"Christina, I know what _Jersey Shore _is."

"Okay, good. You ever seen an episode?" I shake my head again. "Well, it's the town I lived in before moving here. _Maaaaaaajor _party town. Lots of fun." She takes a swig of some emergency vodka. "So, I'll offer you this much sage advice: steer clear of your crappy beers and super hard liquors. Crappy beer makes you gain weight, and the strong shit fucks you up really, _really _fast."

"She's right," Lauren says. "I had a bad experience with Bicardi, back when I was a sophomore."

Shauna snorted. "Yeah, you took four shots _in a row._"

"I wouldn't recommend it!"

_"Anyway," _Christina pulls my shoulder, allowing me to face her again, "It's your first night out, so keep track of your drinks. And if you need to puke, just find me. We've all been there, and I'm _more _than happy to help a sister out."

"Gee. What a touching sentiment," I reply.

"If I may," Shauna says, "Can I recommend a few drinks?"

"Yeah, sure," I reply. _Given I don't know anything about this shit._

"Zeke's bound to have some Fireballthere. It's cinnamon-flavored whiskey. Sounds gross, but it tastes like _heaven_. He'll probably also have Malibu, which is all good if you're into sweet flavored stuff. Just be careful—those are pretty strong." She makes another right. "He'll also probably have some imported beers—Svyturys, Baltika, stuff like that. Those are smooth and pretty light, so if you don't want to get too drunk, I'd go for those."

Lauren shoves Shauna's shoulder. "It was that house back there. Idiot."

"Oh, shit. Sorry."

Lauren turns back, and looks at me. "Zeke is ultra loaded, and since this is your first party, like, _ever,_ here's an important disclaimer: he throws the best parties in town. Period. Everyone else is _way _too cheap to invest in imported beers and cinnamon whiskey. You have a long life of Bud Light and Pabst ahead of you, so I'd try to get the most out of tonight that I could, if I were you."

My head is spinning from the sudden rush of information—I don't think I've ever had so many brand names thrown at me in the space of two minutes—but I manage an, "Okay, got it."

We step out of the car into the clear September night. I look at Zeke's house; reverberations of music and talking are audible from the street.

"Sounds kind of loud," Shauna mutters.

Lauren nods. "Yeah. Do you think it will get busted."

My heart plummets. _Busted? As in, the-cops-are-here busted?_

Shauna shrugs. "Who knows? We're distance runners. Won't be anything we can't get out of."

My heart sinks even further.

Shauna turns to Christina and me. "Okay. If the cops come, _run._ Don't worry about maintaining a buddy system or whatever. We'll meet at the stop light down the road. I think my house is the closest, so we'll go there if we have to. Capishe?"

Christina and I nod.

"Alright, perfect." Shauna cracks her knuckles. A wide grin stretches across her face. "Christina, there's a bathroom next to kitchen—you can get Tris all dolled up there. We'll meet you at the pong table."

_This is a bad idea._

That's what every last cell in my body is telling me. This is _bad, _this is _dangerous, _and _what the fuck are you doing, Beatrice? _There were so many ways that this could go awry. Throwing up and humiliating myself in front of my newfound friends were the least of my worries—what if my parents found out? What if I was _arrested?_

_There's no way I'll be able to pull this off._

But I watch as Shauna, Lauren, and Christina forge ahead. I look to Zeke's house.

I have to admit—this party still doesn't scare me half as much as it excites me.

So, with that in mind, I try my best to put the doubt out of my head. I take a deep breath. And, for the first time in nearly four weeks, I pray. I do a quick sign of the cross and say the Hail Mary under my breath.

"Pray for our sinners, now and at the hour of our death . . ." I trail off. I look to the sky. "Look out for me tonight. Please? If I get arrested, I'm _dead_."

The canopy of stars stare back at me. Off in the distance, I think I see a comet.

"Amen," I finish.

I step inside of the house.

* * *

**A/N: Let this be a PSA to all: **_**Never **_**do four straight shots of Bicardi. **

**I am so, so horribly sorry for how long it took me to update this. I had a serious case of writer's block with this fic, so I just needed to take a break and branch out into other fandoms. But I'm back to writing this now, and I'm super excited to write about Tris and the ladies of the Randolph XC team!**

**Anywho, let me know what you thought! I PROMISE we'll see Tobias in the next chapter. We'll meet the rest of the men as well—Will and Peter will also make appearances :D**

**xx Nina**


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